


and they slowly grow

by LibraryCryptid



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, F/F, The Raven and the Ram, gotta love those battle wagon lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19216432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraryCryptid/pseuds/LibraryCryptid
Summary: The Raven and the Ram.Their beginning, and their end.





	and they slowly grow

i.

 

They meet in the dark alleyway between two buildings, a thief and a Lieutenant facing each other down. The thief stands tall, wrapped in black leather with a crow’s mask attached to her face, and the Lieutenant, a good few feet shorter, glares upwards, her uniform rumbled and smeared with grime from the chase across the city. She’s bright red and breathing heavily, and the thief is barely winded.

The thief, _Sloane_ , grins, all sharp teeth and mocking humor, and asks, “So you’ve caught me, Lieutenant, what are you going to do with me?” She’s not caught, not _really_. Her supposed mad dash across Goldcliff was carefully planned, and she knows that the brick buildings that line this particular alley are old, and spotted with nearly hidden handholds. But there’s something intriguing about this woman standing in front of her, something exciting. At the beginning, there had been six members of the Militia chasing her across the city, and now there’s only the one.

“Arrest you,” The Lieutenant says, with far too much confidence. She has her chin raised and her hands planted on her hips, looking for all the world like she’s willing to fight Sloane if necessary. And _oh_ , this is interesting. Sloane’s no stranger to the Militia, considering the life she lives as the Raven involves breaking the law a _lot_ , but the ones she’s dealt with (outrun) tend to be stiff and overly formal. But this Lieutenant as a spark of fire in her eyes, and Sloane is suddenly far too interested.

“Are you sure about that?” Sloane watches as the Lieutenant’s face twists, confused, and somewhere in the background, there is shouting, and sirens, and the Lieutenant’s stone of farspeech crackles. The others are getting closer, and Sloane knows she should run but this is interesting, and she likes being interested, doesn’t like being bored.

“You think you can catch me?” Sloane leans forward, getting up in the Lieutenant’s space. Her eyes narrow, reaching behind her for some hidden weapon, but Sloane’s already moving. She scrambles up the wall with a well-practiced ease, swinging herself over the edge of the roof. She leans over just in time to see the Lieutenant’s mouth drop open in shock, and she calls up, “Who _are_ you?”

“Tell you what, Lieutenant,” Sloane says, an idea flitting to the front of her mind. Because it’s interesting and exciting and _definitely_ not boring. “You find me? I’ll tell you who I am.”

And then, another member of the Militia rounds the corner of the alley, and Sloane is up and running across the rooftops, laughing.

  


ii.

It takes the Lieutenant three weeks to find her. It’s impressive, actually, considering Sloane had been building up her reputation as a thief for quite some time now. But all it had taken this Lieutenant was three weeks to find her, while it had taken the rest of her squad years, and there were not yet closer.

What was less impressive was how she managed to trip almost every single one of Sloane’s alarms on the way up to her garage, but hey, no one is perfect. And if she’s surprised to see Sloane, clad in her Raven mask, waiting for her, she doesn’t show it. The Lieutenant takes in Sloane, the cluttered garage, and finally settles on the Battle Wagon standing proud and clean in the middle of the room.

“You found me,” Sloane says, and the Lieutenant says in return,

“You’re a racer.”

“I am.” Sloane steps forward, but the Lieutenant doesn’t tear her eyes away from Sloane’s wagon. Sloane steps closer. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Sloane trails her hand along the edge of the wagon, smiling at the vehicle. “I made her, from parts I found abandoned.”

“And parts you stole?” The Lieutenant finally tears her eyes away, focusing on Sloane instead. Sloane grins.

“Of course. Old habits die hard.” Sloane steps closer still, close enough that she can see the curiosity flitting across the halfling’s face, followed by longing, quickly squashed down. And so, Sloane takes a risk.

“I’ll tell you what, Lieutenant. You found me, and I said I’d tell you who I was, but I didn’t say I’d come quietly.” They’re practically nose to nose now, close enough that Sloane can see her breathing. “Race with me, just once. And if you hate it, I’ll let you arrest me, no arguments. But if you love it...well,” she shrugs. “You can’t arrest your driver.”

Sloane can practically hear the wheels turning in the Lieutenant’s head, and her voice is tinged with confusion as she asks “Why?”

Sloane tilts her head. “Because I think you’re like me. I think you’re bored. Tell me, are you really happy chasing down petty criminals and filling out paperwork? Don’t you long for something _more_?”

There’s a tiny hitch in the other woman’s breath, barely noticeable. There’s a long silence, and then, suddenly…

“Fine. One race, Raven, that’s it. And I know how deadly those things can get. No one dies, or the deal is off.”

Sloane waves a hand. “I can do a clean race, no problem. Do we have a deal?”

There’s barely a hesitation before Sloane’s hand is grasped.

“Deal.”

  


iii.

Nothing takes Sloane’s breath away quite like racing. Sure, heists come with their own brand of adrenaline, but the pure exhilaration of a race is a high Sloane has yet to find anywhere else. She’s leaning low over the steering wheel, foot pressed hard against the petal, feathers of her cloak whipping in the wind, and the finishing line is within sight.

And on the seat beside her, the Lieutenant is _laughing_ . Cackling would be a better word, caught up in the speed and _joy_ of this, and Sloane takes her eyes off the road for one second because somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice goes _I’ve found her_. It doesn’t make sense, but at the same time it does, but Sloane doesn’t have time to dwell, not right now.

The Raven has a race to win, and she does, skidding her Battle Wagon across the finish line in a spray of dirt and the cheers of the crowd. They lurch to a stop, gasping and grinning and still laughing, and Sloane feels warm from the win.

(Not from something else.)

Afterwards, after they’ve collected their winnings and slipping away from the crowd, the Lieutenant pulls her off her mask (a ram, with beautiful curling horns and a mischievous expression), her grin splitting her face.

“That was…” she shakes her head and laughs again. “Wow. I understand why people do this.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to arrest me, Lieutenant?” Sloane’s goading, testing the boundaries a little, judging the reaction of the halfling in front of her. The reaction she gets is not what she’s expecting.

“Hurley.”

“What?”

She smiles, and for the first time Sloane notices her freckles.

“Hurley. My name is Hurley. I figure if we’re gonna do this, you should probably know my name.”

There’s a warmth in Sloane’s stomach, and for the first time since adopting the moniker of the Raven, she removes her mask in front of someone.

“Sloane,” she says, and Hurley’s nose wrinkles as she smiles.

 

 

iv.

They become the Raven and the Ram, and they race, and they _win_. They work well together, the thief and the cop, and the partnership they form is unstoppable. Sloane knows she’s walking on thin ice, knows that Hurley could at any moment decide to turn Sloane in, but…

But, but, but. They match, they fit together and work together like they were made to do so, and Sloane can see herself in Hurley, can see her own fire in Hurley’s eyes, and it’s intoxicating.

They lie on the bed of their Battle Wagon, soaking in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the skylight in the roof of the garage. It’s lazy, _soft_ , and Sloane can feel herself drifting in and out of a doze. Hurley is a warm body beside her, and they’re not _quite_ touching, but they’re close enough that Sloane knows that she smells like grease and oil and the vaguely floral perfume that lies just underneath. It makes her head spin.

“They’ve always been my favorite.”

“Hmm?” Sloane opens her eyes, blinking in the sunlight, and Hurley smiles. Her nose crinkles every time she smiles. It makes Sloane warm.

“You’re like a cat,” she teases, gently bumping their shoulders together. “Put you in a patch of sunlight and you’re out.”

Sloane makes an exaggerated groan, but she’s only kidding. Hurley knows this, because after weeks and months of spending every spare minute they have side by side, they know each other’s mannerisms better than Sloane could’ve ever predicted. Her shoulder buzzes where Hurley’s bare skin touched hers.

“Cherry blossoms.” Hurley gestures up at the skylight, where a few pink petals, blown onto the roof from the tree down the street spot the glass. “They were always my favorite as a kid. On a windy day it looked as if it was snowing pink.”

There are so many things that Sloane wants to say to that, but she can’t articulate any of them, can’t articulate this feeling rising in her chest, so instead what comes out of her mouth is “dork.”

Hurley is used to how Sloane shows affection, so she just nudges Sloane again, a little harder this time, and then once again falls silent. And Sloane’s suddenly warm, not from the sun, but rather there’s a liquid, heavy warmth low in her stomach, the kind of feeling you get after you drink a cup of tea on a cold day but growing, causing her fingertips to tingle and her breath to hitch.

Hurley is curled beside her, and for the first time Sloane notices that she has freckles on her shoulders, too. It’s a tiny detail but in this moment it hits Sloane like a train and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with this, not sure what she’s supposed to do with this feeling rising up, taking over her.

  


v.

Sloane kisses Hurley for the first time on the bed of a Battle Wagon surrounded by warm, liquid sunlight, and Hurley kisses her back.

It’s funny, Sloane is supposed to be the thief, but Hurley is the one who stole Sloane’s heart.

  


vi.

Kissing Hurley takes Sloane’s breath away.

  


vii.

The sash cuts into her stomach, wrapped tight like a corset, causing her ribs to creak. It _hurts_ , but Sloane can’t figure out if it’s a physical hurt or a mental one, and does it really matter, anyways? There’s that curl of dark wrongness in her stomach and whispering in the back of her mind, a voice telling her that she can be _powerful_ , she can be a _god_. She doesn’t want that, she wants her Battle Wagon and her races and Hurley.

She doesn’t want to be powerful, doesn’t want to be a god. She _doesn’t_.

Does she?

She kisses Hurley with a fierceness that startles her girlfriend, knits her fingers into the auburn curls of her hair, and for a moment, for the barest of moments, that wrongness almost leaves. They curl together in Hurley’s bed, in _their_ bed, and Sloane isn’t wearing the sash but she can hear it whispering to her, can still feel the cinch of it around her waist. She doesn’t want what it offers, but she _does_ , and the voice in her head is getting louder.

She kisses Hurley’s bare, freckled shoulder, and reminds herself she wants _this_ , _she wants this_.

(shewantsthisshewantsthisshewantsthisshewants _this_ )

The sash doesn’t listen.

  


viii.

No deaths. That’s the agreement. But Sloane’s memory is full of holes and sometimes it feels like _she’s_ full of holes, and the sash is the one that’s filling her back up. A clean run.

But there’s that dark, dark voice whispering in the back of Sloane’s head, it’s drowning everything else out.

She yanks the wheel of the wagon hard to the right, ignoring Hurley’s screams, ignoring all the screams.

(it’s so easy to take a life. She never knew how easy).

  


ix.

“You’re in trou-bleee,” Hurley sing-songs, and Sloane is crying.

There’s blood on Hurley’s lips, and her skin is gray and black and Sloane is crying, cradling her love in her arms. She _did_ this, or the sash did this, she’s not sure, her memories of the last few months are misty and fall through her fingers like sand when she tries to grasp them. But does it matter? Hurley is curled in Sloane’s arms and Sloane is crying, her tears dripping down her face.

Across the room, three men stand. Strangers, Sloane thinks, because she doesn’t know them but she does, somehow, as if she saw them once in a dream. But she doesn’t pay attention to them. Hurley is curled in her lap and Sloane can hear the rattle every time she breathes.

“This whole time I was looking for something more powerful than this fucking belt. I’m such a fool.”

In the background the men are arguing, trying to make the dwarf heal Hurley, but this is silverpoint, and there’s no cure. Hurley’s dying, the person Sloane loves more than _anything_ is dying in her arms, and there’s nothing she can do.

Unless. Unless unless unless.

She leans down to her love, whispering in her ear.

“What if I could do something? That would let us be together? And safe? Forever?”  
Hurley coughs, and there’s more blood on her lips but she smiles as she says “Yeah, I think that’ll be alright.”

It’s funny. Sloane always thought that dying would be painful. But this...this is peaceful, this is Hurley in her arms and a sunburst in her chest and she presses her lips to Hurley’s forehead and together, they sink into a bright, glowing warmth, as if they were once more curled together on the bed of their wagon basking in sunlight.

 

x.

  
_Don’t let this happen again_.

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine got me hooked on TAZ and I've been BINGING. Did I ever expect to cry because of a dnd podcast? NOPE, but it's given me feelings and of course I was going to fic it.
> 
> I'm currently on the last episode of the Suffering Game, and I've been told I should expect to cry more. I look forward to it. 
> 
> (anyways, Meaghan, I blame you for this)


End file.
